


from france i come to give my all

by multicorn



Series: we are shaped like stars [2]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Loyalty, and how hard it is to be Useful, the romance of war!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7661755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multicorn/pseuds/multicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What we don’t need is a boy Marquis, who would cost us far more if he dies than he could be worth to us alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from france i come to give my all

By the end of July, the army’s been sweltering in their heavy woolen coats for months.  What once felt like the fires of Hell has become simply another condition of the inescapable eternity of this war.  Likewise: moving from place to place, never quite making contact with the enemy, all the while unable to determine how the two armies’ strength compares.  They’re running a furious race with the British merely to keep standing still, and no one in headquarters has been in a decent temper for at least two months.

Alex is taking a surreptitious break from writing, nursing his hand so that it won’t give out before he stops writing around midnight when he sees the General read a message, and sees the stormclouds gather on his brow.  He applies himself hastily back to the letter at hand before the General catches him watching.

“Hamilton,” the General calls.  “Come here.”  He flexes his fingers as he comes up to the General’s desk, restless with mingled anxiety and anticipation.  The sternness that sits on the General’s countenance, squaring the shapes of forehead and jaw, draws him in more than it has any right to.  “I need you to write a letter to Congress for me.”

“What about?”

“Can you believe, they’re trying to saddle me with another French officer?  I told them we have too many officers, to send me soldiers or nothing, preferably, soldiers.  And what are they sending us now?  A General.”

“Yes, sir.  So what is it you want me to do?”

“I don’t suppose you could persuade them not to…”  The General leaves the request dangling in mid-air.  Alex wants to laugh out loud.  The Commander of the whole damn army, hesitating to command him.

“As much as I appreciate your Excellency’s faith in me, I can’t accomplish the impossible.  And Congress, as we both know, is quite impossible.  I’ll write if you wish, but I think it more prudent to husband their tolerance for cases where some change might be made.”

“Very well.”  Washington massages his temple with his fingertips.  Alex hopes there’s not a headache coming on.  “Congress must be obeyed.  But I have no place to put this so-called General.  Can you think of any place besides sending him back?”

“What if you invited him to join the family?” Alex says.  Washington laughs, and the lines on his face shift for a moment so that he looks years younger.  Alex had only intended the laugh, but, “actually,” he says, thinking out loud, “that could be a workable idea.  We easily have room here for another man or two.  And we could tell both him and the Congress that it’s a sign of respect, to offer him so close a position to the Commander in Chief.”

Washington fixes Alex in place with a stare that seems to go straight through his gut.  “All very reasonable.  But what made you think that I want him near me?”

“Nothing,” Alex says, unflinching.  “But since our goal is to satisfy the aims of the army, not yourself, I didn’t consider it an insuperable objection.  Unless you have a better plan?”

“I admit that I don’t.  All right.  This new General will be joining us in a few days.  I’ll assign somebody to write to him and tell him so.  And, since this was your suggestion, you can have charge of him from here on out.  Please try to think of some way we can make use of him.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex says.  Washington turns back to his work, the shining bald top of his head a familiar sign of dismissal.  “Just one question, if I may?”

“What is it?”

“Does he have a name?”

Washington spreads back out the letter that’s trying to re-fold under his hands.  “It’s very long.  And very French.  But for now, let us say - the Marquis de Lafayette.”

~

They move camp again the next day.  The Molands have hosted the General’s family long enough.  They daren’t be too much of an imposition on Revolutionary-minded citizens, or they’re in danger of running out of supporters altogether.  The family’s still setting up in the Hill house when Alex answers the door to a knock from a young man in a long blue coat.

“What’s the news?” he asks the messenger.

“I’m the Marquis de Lafayette.”  He looks like only a boy.  But there’s an intensity about him that’s appealing, as he barrels on a mile-a-minute, “are these the Washington’s headquarters?  I was so excited, to be invited to attend him personally.  I’ve admired him for years from afar, and to at once be offered this chance!”  The Marquis is smiling hopefully, but he’s not meeting Alex’s eyes, and  Alex belatedly realizes that he’s scanning the room behind him over his shoulder, and that without even having to go on tiptoe.  “Is he in there?  Right now?”

The start of Alex’s annoyance is cut through by the General’s voice.  “Hamilton?  What’s happening?”

“That’s the General,” Alex says to Lafayette.  Then he turns towards the General, stepping out of the doorway and calling across the room, “Lafayette has arrived.”

“Show him in, then,” Washington says; but Lafayette does not wait either for Alex or for the sentence to be complete.  Immediately he bounces across the room.  He’s a large man: fully as tall as the General, and just muscular enough to escape the label of gangly.  His skin is a shade or two darker a brown than Washington’s, his hair a puffy cloud tied up behind him, and his blue coat, Hamilton now realizes, is bedecked all over  with gold medals, ribbons, and similar accouterments.  Yet he reminds Alex of nothing so much as an over-eager puppy, trotting across the grass to present its owner with a ball.  “Gilbert Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch du Motier de Lafayette, at your service, sir, if you please.”  He sweeps a low and florid bow in front of Washington’s desk with a gesture that nearly misses toppling an inkwell, then straightens, seemingly unaware.  “I am so pleased to be meeting you!   _ Enchanté _ , as they say.  I hope we shall become great friends.”

“Ah - er,” Washington says.  Alex sympathizes.  How is one to respond to such a display?  And yet, seeing the General struggle is a welcome respite from struggling in his eyes.  “I’m glad to see that you’ve arrived safely, the General manages, eventually.  “But, as you can see, I’m busy here, and so if you please - ?  Hamilton.  Why don’t you show the Marquis around, and help him get settled in.”   


“I hope we will talk again soon,” Lafayette says to the top of Washington’s head.  Alex wonders whether he doesn’t realize that he’s been dismissed, or whether he’s simply refusing to acknowledge it.  In either case, his own duty is the same.

He taps the Marquis on the shoulder to get him moving once again.  “Come on.  Let’s go.”

~

The camp is laid out in orderly fashion.  Variously clean canvas tents are staked out row by row in the startlingly bright green of the Hills’ fields.  A tired army, from top to bottom, the faces of which have become Alex’s whole world: and under its feet, the undisturbed land they’re fighting for the possession of.

Alex leads Lafayette down red clay path of that splits the encampment in two, noting all the while which regiment each of the standards they pass signifies.  “No one will expect you to know,” he says, “but you could find it useful, if you do.”

Lafayette says nothing, only repeats and tries to pronounce the names Alex tells him.

It’s not long before they reach the end of the path.  Side by side, the camp hospital and the quartermaster’s tent stand in their way, and beyond them,  empty fields.    The mingled smells emanating from both tents make Alex faintly nauseous, and so he starts to head back, assuming the Marquis will stay at his heels.

“Wait,” Lafayette calls.  He’s standing as if stuck to the spot in front of the two large pavilions.  His hands are clenching at his sides, and he looks at once too small for his uniform, the very picture of nervousness.  Alex waits.

“Did I say something wrong?”  The question bursts out of him explosively, as if a fuse has reached its end.

For a second Alex is confused.  The other hasn’t said  _ anything _ \- and then he realizes, to Washington.  “I don’t think so,” he says, frowning, trying to recall the exchange.  “What do you mean?”

“Your General,” Lafayette says.  “I did not expect him to be, so, how do you say, hard?  Like a diamond, he is.  I hope I have not given too severe an offense.”

He sounds as miserable as if he’s insulted a lover, or a dear friend.  He may be trying - in both senses of the word - but his sincerity makes Alex want to help.  “Don’t worry,” he counsels, “but, listen.  The General is a busy man, and, as I’m sure you can understand, he has neither the desire nor the temperament to befriend a whole army of men.”

“ _ Oui,  _ _ je comprends _ .  I have made a fool of myself, have I not?”

“A little,” Alex admits. “But good service may easily make up for a trespass so slight and unintentional.”

By this time, they’ve arrived back at the square stone house from which they’d started out.  Walking not straight back through the camp, but taking an arc around its edge, they’ve ended up at the side door, a simple affair made of unpolished wood.  Alex pushes it open, and beckons Lafayette to follow him up the dark narrow stairs.

“Here are the sleeping rooms,” he says.  He keeps his voice is low out of habit, though there’s no need to be quiet in the middle of the day.  “We each have our own at the moment - this is mine.”  He indicates a closed door, hiding nothing but a bed and stacks of books and papers which he nevertheless doesn’t care to open, “and this,” he continues, opening the door next to it, at the very end of the hall, “is yours.”

Lafayette steps in for a minute, and Alex follows him.  It’s a narrow room, painted white, with a roughly carved wooden bed by the wall and a pewter basin on a shelf and a couple of hooked rugs on the floor.  There’s not much to see.  Lafayette walks out, after a minute, and Alex follows suit.  “If we go back downstairs,” he says, suiting his actions to his words, Lafayette at his back as they both descend, “and through this little hall, then we get to the dining room.”  It’s filled with furniture even now: a long table down the center, and sideboards along both long walls, but otherwise empty at this hour.  “We’re served breakfast here at six a.m. and supper at seven p.m. sharp.  Sometimes we can get tea from the cooks in the kitchen - I’ll show you where it is next - and sometimes we can’t.  The rest of the time I spend working in the workroom, which you already saw when you arrived.”

“And what am I to do?” Lafayette asks.

“How should I know?” Alex tosses back.  Then the frustration that he feels at being asked to answer that question for everyone, when he doesn’t have the freedom to make the decision for himself for himself, boils over, possibly at the wrong person.  “Most likely - what did you do all day on your estates in France?”

Lafayette recoils as if Alex had physically struck him.  “What has that to do with anything?  Could it be you wish already to send me back there?”

Alex throws up his hands, frustrated.  “God, no!  Wouldn’t that be a mess! Congress would be furious with us.  Not to mention the opinion of  the French court.”

“Weren’t you just implying that you don’t need French aid?” Lafayette asks.

“No offense,” Alex says, heatedly, “but what we don’t need is a boy Marquis, who would cost us far more if he dies than he could be worth to us alive.  What we need is money, and guns, and ships, and you’re not giving us those things.”

The two of them are still standing in the open door to the dining room.  As Alex’s voice rises, it echoes off the polished wood and the glass chandeliers, through the empty space of worthless opulence.

“Then why didn’t you ask?”  Lafayette’s voice is quiet by contrast, but all the more infuriating for all that.

“I have been doing little else but ask for months,” Alex says.  He takes care to keep quiet now, pitching the words low and steady, like throwing knives.  “My hands ache from writing letters all day.  My back is sore from bending over the desk.  And what do I see, here, now?  No guns, no ships - and you.”

“I meant no harm,” Lafayette says.  “I only meant, why don’t you ask me?  Instead of yelling at me over this.  It could be, I could be of help.”

Alex doesn’t know what to think.  The emotional whiplash is bad enough; but on top of that, Lafayette’s arrogance is breathtaking, offering himself as an alternative to an entire country.  Underneath the awe, somewhere, is a bone-deep resentment, that Alex would never be able make such an offer himself.  And teetering on top of it all, there’s a sharp hunger, for whatever may be offered, always, damn the unlikelihood or the consequences.,

All these feelings pass in the space between one breath and the next, and Alex makes an attempt to recollect himself to neutrality before he speaks.  “Would you really?”

“Of course I would.  As I told your General, I am at your service.  I will do everything that I can.  I wish that you would ask for my sword, but, no matter what, whatever wealth and influence I have at my disposal are also yours.”

“I feel the same way!” Alex says.  “I wish the General would give me a command!  But instead he plucked me from the line and asked me to wield a pen instead of a sword.”

“If the observation does not offend you, you seem to have some skill in argument,” Lafayette says.  “I can see why the General might dispose of you as he has.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” Alex says.  It’s a compliment, even if not one he wants.  He grins wryly at the marquis, in recognition, and the other easily smiles back.

“Still, I shall hope that we both may be asked to fight on the field before the war is done.”   


“I couldn’t say better myself,” Alex says.  He offers a hand to shake.  An American custom, perhaps, and contrary to the marquis’ earlier bow.  Still, Lafayette takes his hand, and shakes it as much as he bows over it.  Alex thinks for a moment that he might kiss it too, but no.

~

Supper is quite an affair that night, in honor of Lafayette.  The General’s unwilling to sacrifice his own work for even the most honored of  guests, but he’s more than willing to order the kitchen staff to do their utmost.

They start with a soup made of clear broth.  “ _ Consommé _ ,” Lafayette says.  He sounds impressed, though Alex can’t fathom it: with less food rather than more?  And then, regardless, they’re deluged with food.  Cuts of mutton, and whole chickens, and beef; squash and peas and potatoes and corn; fine-crumbed white bread and even more dishes that Alex can’t identify, all washed down by bottles and bottles of fine enough claret.  The soldiers talk over each other as they eat, tailoring their stories for Lafayette’s ears.  Together they must recount five times over the history of the campaign so far, its many dangers and few victories, with the blame and the credit as hard-fought in the telling as any battle was on the field. 

When Alex feels he’s in danger of popping, relief forces finally arrive.  The plates are cleared.  And then out comes a coffee service, and four - six - eight - different pies.  It’s all meant to show Lafayette that their hospitality’s not strained; but Alex, who knows the truth of the numbers, winces despite his replete stomach.

Washington turns from his piece of pie to Lafayette on his right side.  “So,” he says, “Lafayette.  I confess.  I’m curious as to why you chose to join us.”

“How could I not?” Lafayette says.  He speaks with passion, stars in his eyes, the piece of pie halfway to his lips completely forgotten.  “You should know that the tale of your dedication to the noble cause of  _ liberté _ has spread its wings all over the world.  As has the reputation of your persistence in the most adverse circumstances!  It is the truth, you have inspired me.”

“And so you wish to be part of our glory?”  Washington’s smile is kind, but tinged with pity.  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s no glory in war.”

Lafayette nods.  “I believe you.  But just now I was speaking not simply of your army but of yourself.  What could they be, I have wondered, the qualities in a man, which compel an army to follow him, though he has neither title nor crown?  Selfishly, I would like to learn this, by serving such a man myself.”

Washington’s visibly taken aback.  If this morning was a warning shot, just now he looks as if he’s received an entire fusillade of startlement.  Alex would laugh out loud, if only it wouldn’t be frowned upon.  “I’m flattered by your sentiments,” the great man says, eventually, “but flattery’s no behavior becoming of an officer.”

Lafayette inclines his head respectfully.  Clearly, he’s not willing to argue with the object of his hero-worship.  “It is true,” he says, “I do not know you, yet.  I know only what the people say.  Still, I am honored by this opportunity to see the truth for myself.”

~

After the dishes are cleared up and the chairs are pushed back, when supper is well and truly a memory and Alex thinks that he could eat a piece of pie now, after all, he is up late, as is his habit, writing by himself.  A shadow intrudes on the flickering pool of light that his candle sheds, and he looks up to see the General.

“Sir?”

“I think I may have judged young Lafayette too harshly.”

So it’s one of those nights.  The General’s taken to using him as a sort of counselor, or confessor.   It’s a position Alex might find more satisfying if he were truly free to speak his mind, or more worth the frustration, at any rate, if it came with some acknowledgment.  Still, it’s not something he can refuse.  “Do you wish me to tell him so?”

Washington’s voice, as it always is so late at night, is heavy.  Somehow the burdens of care that he carries must press more heavily now.   “Do you think he could tell?”

“I think everyone could.”

“Then you may as well let him know.”  Washington sighs.   It’s a great gust of wind, and the candle flame trembles in its wake.  “I hope I don’t destroy the idea he has of me.  Do you think that’s a weakness?” 

Alex stars into the dark.  Formless shadows, where he knows there to be tables and chairs and stone walls.  I think this is likely a weakness on both our parts, he doesn’t say.  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“Those things he said at dinner,” Washington says.  “You know and I know they're absurd.  But still I find that it strengthens me, a subordinate who believes in me so utterly.”

Silence falls on them then, as Alex sifts and discards ways to reply.  He would like to say that he believes in the General, too, and he would also like, sometime, not to be asked for new impossible things.  He stays silent, and eventually he hears the sound of boots, of the General walking away.  He walks at a measured pace, not too fast to be recalled with a belated reply, and so Alex waits until the last echoes have faded into silence, before he answers, “yes, sir,” to an empty room.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, criticism, and chatting are loved - below or find me on tumblr at multsicorn!
> 
> (p.s. yes i said i would update this fic 'verse twice a week ages ago. but my laptop died. i am working with a new one now and have written several parts ahead and! will update on time this time! you will see lol.)


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